


The Broken Blade

by Davechicken



Series: The Pilot and his Broken Saber [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, Post!TFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Defying Snoke has its price. Kylo is left a broken man, when he finally joins the Resistance for good. Not everyone is happy to see him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Blade

**Author's Note:**

> AKA DC cannot write proper hate!sex as DC sucks. Also DC is sleep-deprived as Kylo wouldn't let DC go to bed.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

They say all the right things to him, he supposes. Whatever you _can_ say to a man in his position, which is probably unprecedented; at least, it’s unprecedented in documented history. Kylo lets it all wash over him, and winces when he sees that the medical charts all bear a name that is no longer his. Would it kill them to recognise his identity? Is it so hard to reprogram their system with his real name? They must do it whenever women marry and choose to change their names, so why not for him? 

Idly, somewhat paranoid, he wonders if it’s a psychological trick. An attempt to grind him down, to beat any thought of re-re-rebellion out of him. After all, what has turned twice, can no longer be trusted to hold true. He’s like a weather-vane, pointing towards the newest goal or enemy on the lightest gust.

 _Not true_ , says a voice. _You never wanted to fall. And you wanted to come back. You wanted this. You chose this_.

 **Lies** , says another voice. **You changed sides because you were looking for power. You go wherever you can be strongest.**

Both true, in a sense, and that’s the worst thing. 

Or maybe they think by using _that name_ that they can summon up another person, another him. The irony is never lost on him that his parents chose Obi-Wan’s _exile name_. The one that his uncle first knew him as, and not the Jedi name. But even so - with the connotations as Anakin’s ex-master, of a man who fled when the Order fell… all the other memories cling to it like soup-scum around a bowl-lip. Perhaps once it could have been palatable, but it split away from the main; it became cold, dried, and disgusting. A solid, where once it had been liquid. It could never be him, not again.

The medics know enough not to call him _that_. **Ren** , they say, though is that true, now? When he threw his lot against the Supreme Leader, he’s sure he ceased to be Kylo **Ren**. He has no Knights, no Order, no Master. He’s been reduced down to a single name: Kylo. That’s all that is now him. Kylo. One name, and one name alone.

Not that he could be Master of the Knights. Not now. Somewhere in the fighting… somewhere… it became like watching a holo, instead of being there. He’d nearly lost his life at the shock, and only long-drilled muscle-memory kept his limbs going through to the end of the fight. 

It hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t been strong enough. Snoke had been injured - badly - but not killed. And Kylo had barely escaped in one piece, his arm sliced from shoulder to elbow, blood everywhere and a pain he could normally subdue, but now… now he couldn’t. 

Not without the Force. 

The tests his mother’s people run on him are inconclusive, of course. They say nothing anyone couldn’t guess. The knowledge that might explain his sudden - his… _insensitivity_ are lost to the purges of Sith long-gone. If there’s an explanation, he won’t find it. No amount of blood tests, or full-body scans, or anything else will tell him why he’s suddenly blind to half of reality. 

Kylo has his suspicions, of course. Firmest amongst them is that Snoke did this, to punish him. To punish his re-rebellion, his rejection of the Leader’s control. Snoke is more powerful than he is, and even though he fought alongside Jedi, he was woefully outclassed. The second is… the second is that…

…that maybe the Force gave up on him. Maybe it realised that he was unworthy, somehow. Maybe it withdrew from him, because of his faithless heart. Maybe it realised he was a lost cause, and cut its ties to him. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know which is worse. 

He also doesn’t know if he can ever get it _back_. 

Kylo waits until they’ve given him the all-clear, and he bolts for cover like a startled animal. He needs - he needs - he…

***

In his room. His mother had the decency to house him a little away from everyone. Still within the main base, but on the outskirts. The next block along has the migrants in; the ones who are here enough to warrant their own place, but who are also gone enough that they don’t need to be in the complex, proper. There’s nothing personalised about it, not at all.

If he walked out, right now, and took the clothes he’s wearing and the useless saber on his belt… no one would know it was his room. No one would know. No one…

The walls start to close in on him, and he can’t wear the mask any more. Without the Force to compensate for the restricted visibility, even the HUD built into it leaves him too fettered. 

He can’t - he just can’t - he can’t _see_. It’s like the world is stripped of colour. It’s not even monochrome, it’s monochrome and _flat_. Like a flimsi, instead of a full colour holo. It’s like the music consists only of shrill, upper notes. No middle, no bass. It’s… it’s…

HOW DO THEY LIVE LIKE THIS?

Around and around in his head. It’s all so bland, so dull, so - so - **horrifying**. He can’t feel emotions, he can’t feel motion, he can’t influence things, and he’s - he’s stuck with the ‘normal’ senses of a ‘normal’ person. He stubs his toes on chairs, his whole sense of the world and his place in it gone to pot. He jumps when people walk up on him and he doesn’t notice. He stands in a crowd, or in front of someone, and he has no idea what’s going on in their heads. Not really. The silence from others’ bleed-through, long-craved, turns out to be just as awful as feeling the overspill. 

He **hates it**.

Kylo staggers out into the night, and walks so fast that his breathing comes slightly laboured. It shouldn’t. He’s in peak physical shape, but it does, all the same.

He walks until he’s - until - 

Kylo stops in his tracks. He’s wandered onto the small shipyard-cum-landing strip, where the Resistance’s smaller crafts would come to huddle together like cold birds, waiting to be patched up or flown out to war. At this time, it should be empty, but that’s only when you apply local logic. Every settled world goes by its own, local timezones. There’s no saying when a pilot will come back to roost, and he happens to have walked in on the tail end of one put-down. 

Poe Dameron. The Resistance’s best pilot. He hasn’t seen him, since - since… 

Since the _Finalizer_. 

Since he tortured him for information.

His droid is with him; that BB-unit that caused Kylo so much pain. Kylo finally sees it, and that’s all kinds of strange. If only he’d found it sooner, or if - if…

If he had? If he had found the map? If he’d gone to Luke himself? Would his father still be alive, and would… would… would he have tried to kill his uncle, in some misguided attempt to finally win Snoke’s approval? Or some subconscious suicide-by-Jedi? Or would he have listened to Luke Skywalker, would he have turned back to the ‘Light’, sooner?

Light. Hah. Light. He didn’t even _have_ the Force, now. So Light, Dark, Jedi… not-Jedi… that was all moot, now. He was here, having turned on Snoke, and aside from the intel he’d provided to the Resistance, he was no longer of use to **anybody whatsoever**. 

The droid notices him first, top-dome spinning around, and then the chassis bouncing back and forth in sync with distant beeping and booping. Kylo flinches, and Poe meets his eyes.

Poe. Poe Dameron. 

Neither of them move, and it’s getting ridiculous. Kylo can’t quite bring himself to flee, but he’s also not going to approach. To run would be to back down, to surrender, and something in his gut doesn’t want to. He’s turning simple eye-contact over a duracrete distance into an all-out _war_. It’s petty, and it’s stupid, and then Poe turns away, and it’s like something inside of Kylo **screams**. How dare he! How dare he turn away! How dare he act as if Kylo is the nothing he is? 

Just because he - just because he’s _impotent_ , and **powerless** , and unwanted… for a moment, he can’t comprehend that Poe might not want to face someone who violated his mind, someone who had once been his friend, and then his enemy, and now his… parasitical neighbour… it’s a personal vendetta, and Kylo’s long legs take him up towards the pilot who is back to doing his post-flight checks solo (to let the landing crew rest up, no doubt).

“I don’t need any help,” Poe snarks, his back to Kylo. His hands run over the hull, probably without any reason for it.   


“I didn’t come over to help you.”  


“Guess you wouldn’t, would you?”  


“Help you with your _ship_?”  


Poe’s shoulders stiffen, and the droid is behind his legs, for safety. “You normally stand around here at night for no reason?”

“No.”  


Poe sighs, and turns to face him. Their eyes meet properly, and Kylo watches as he’s examined by a sad, pained expression. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”  


“…riiiiiight. So…” Poe slings his thumbs into straps around his hips. “Courtesy call?”  


“Forget it.” Kylo turns, and storms off. He feels eyes burrowing into the back of his head, and he walks as fast as his legs will take him.  


***

Kylo can’t sleep. He can’t. He tries. He lies on his bed, more of a cot than anything else, and he stares at the ceiling. He can’t sleep, and he’s exhausted. He closes his eyes so tightly that constellations spark behind them, so tightly that he can feel the lids pressing together, and his head hurts from the tension.

He can’t sleep, and he’s going insane.

He pulls the pillow over his head and he **screams.**

***

No one here knew him _before_. No one but his family, who he stays as far away from as he can. No matter what his mother said when he came home, he just - he **killed his father**. He killed her husband. How do you face your mother, when you become a patricide? You can’t. 

A few pilots from his uncle’s heyday know him vaguely, but he was so young when he left that… there’s nothing left linking them.

The only one who knew him, who had any sense of who he was… well. The last time they talked counts as one of the most frustrating exchanges of his life, and the time before was him raking through thoughts and memories and inflicting massive amounts of pain, and those kind of things don’t just go because you happen to remember what they were like as a kid…

Poe avoids him. Kylo avoids Poe. 

The world is awful.

Kylo hates him.

***

His mother thinks he needs to present information in a briefing. Kylo does not, but when the General - your _mother_ \- insists? You obey. She won’t take just an overview from him, explaining he can answer questions posed as and when if he’s there. So he comes, and he stands around the holotable, and he drones out the information in a lifeless monotone. 

Across the table is Poe, and Poe is staring at him throughout. It makes his skin crawl, and Kylo fights the urge to **bolt**. He can’t see inside his head, but he doesn’t need to. He answers the questions as fast as he can, takes the slightest hint of a dismissal, and runs.

***

Avoiding goes well again until one day in the mess. He tries to go at the tail end of meals, so most people are gone. He usually grabs something quick and makes a run for it, but today he has the misfortune to walk in just behind Poe. There’s no one else in the queue, and only a handful of people at tables, and it would be too obvious to turn around and leave. So he walks up with his tray and he breathes through his nose and he tells himself it’s okay.

It’s okay.

Poe smiles, but it’s one of those _choke on broken transparisteel_ smiles, or so Kylo is sure. They both reach for something at the same time, and arm brushes wrist and Kylo drops the little ramekin, and it shatters. He drops to pick the pieces up, and then hisses in pain when he manages to slice through the thick part of the base of his thumb. Blood wells up, and he stares down at it in shock.

He’s still in shock when another hand grabs his wrist, pinching to stem the flow of blood. There’s words, and then there’s another hand pinching the wound closed. He can’t think, and he’s just observing distantly as Poe speaks low and urgent to him. Someone runs for the medikit, and then there’s bacta and bandages and Kylo doesn’t even understand. He’s shoved into a chair, with his hand between his knees, and his own hand forced to pinch down on his wrist to slow his pulse while the emergency wound-closing works. 

Poe is crouched in front of him, looking pale and worried. He doesn’t understand that, either.

“Ben…”  


“Kylo,” he whispers back, automatically, and watches as if from in another room as it makes him wince.  


“You’re in shock. Stay with me. Okay? Listen to my voice.”  


“Why?”  


“It will help you focus, it will help you come back around, and–”  


“No… why are you…?”  


Poe’s jaw works, and Kylo watches it from that faraway place. “It’s the right thing to do,” he says, with some kind of wry, sad amusement at a joke Kylo doesn’t begin to get. The medics come in, and Poe leaves him in their hands.

Kylo still doesn’t understand.

***

He doesn’t understand it, when, that night… Poe turns up at his door. He opens it, and the man is clearly drunk out of his mind. He can smell the reek of it like a cloud that haunts his head, and his eyes are dark and lightly glazed. Kylo has never been drunk, but he’s seen it enough in others.

Poe does not look like a happy drunk. He’s not happy when he grabs Kylo’s shirt, and spins him around and slams him into the door to his wardrobe, the small handle catching against Kylo’s hip and making him hiss in pain. 

Kylo should defend himself, but he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to, when Poe kicks fiercely at his feet, and his legs slide slightly apart, and they’re on eye-level.

“I hate you,” Poe says, and he doesn’t mean it, but he does.   


Kylo isn’t sure how he understands _that_ , but he does. There’s anger and betrayal on his face, but it’s mingled with that something else. Disappointment? Frustration? Sadness? Poe’s emotional state is hard to read with just his face, much like Kylo’s used to be, under his mask. Only this is because Kylo’s had a crutch all these years, and with it kicked from under him, he’s left on a level playing field. No… worse. His normal senses atrophied from years of neglect, and left uncultivated. 

“I’m sorry?” Kylo tries, which is almost right.  


“Do you have any idea what you did to me?”  


“Yes.”  


He does. He had it done to himself, often enough.

“So why did you do it? Did you just not care how it felt? How it felt to have - to have _you_ do that to me?”  


“I did it because… I had to.”  


“Really?” Poe’s nostrils flare when he’s angry, and Kylo realises he never saw Poe angry before. Not before he left, when - when he was still - when he was _Ben_. When he was his **friend**.  


“I thought so.”  


“But you can just - what? Change your mind later? And turn up, and not even… I’m not even worth an apology?”  


“I’m sorry.”  


“You’re sorry because I’m yelling at you, Ben!”  


He doesn’t correct him this time. “What did you want me to do? Hunt you down and sit you down over a cup of caf? Say ‘I’m sorry I tortured you for information’?”

“That would have been a good start!”  


“Well… I’m sorry. I am. But no amount of me _saying_ it will undo what I did. Not to you, not to anyone. I can’t unring that bell. I can’t bring back everyone I killed, and I can’t even - I can’t even _help_ , now. So yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m a terrible person, Poe. I’m sorry I Fell. I’m sorry I tortured you. I’m sorry I killed all those people. And I’m sorry I haven’t felt like talking to you, because–”  


“ **Why**?” Poe’s eyes are aching, and Kylo knows he did that. And he hates himself all over.  


“Because _I can’t fix it_ ,” he says, closing his own eyes so he can’t see the look of betrayal any more. “Because I haven’t spoken to **anyone** since I got back, unless they made me. Because I don’t know _how_ , or **what** , and because I’ve been hoping if I just stay in my corner, eventually–”  


“ **WHAT**?”  


“I don’t know!”  


What did Poe want from him? Some grand masterplan? He’d spent his life riding one terrible plan to the next, coasting on other people’s wars. He’d never - he’d never really - _been_ anything but that. But a weapon, or a timebomb, or a bundle of potential and expectations. He’d been a Knight, a soldier, a Jedi-in-training, a son… he didn’t know what you did when your core was stripped from you. Even when he’d turned his back on Snoke, before he knew it would leave him neutered and rendered ineffective, he hadn’t had the forethought to consider _what next_. 

There was no next. There was - nothing. He had no goals, no ambition, no drive, no purpose.

He was empty. Drained of all hope, drained of all intention. He was a hollow man. Not even really a man, just a grown body with no pilot at the helm. He was a blank round for a ballistic weapon. A relic of bygone warfare, and not even functional at that.

“I hate you,” Poe says, and kisses him.  


Kylo feels his whiskey-chapped lips on his own, and wonders why the hell Poe is kissing him if he hates him. He **tortured** the man, for Force’s sake. He strapped him to a chair and ripped through his mind, like others had done to him. He hurt him. A man he - a _boy_ \- he once called **friend**. He stole through his thoughts like they were public-access holo-records. He caused pain he didn’t need to. And all for what? For a war he then _threw_. He tortured his once-friend for a cause he later renounced.

Maybe that’s why Poe hates him so much. He’d been strong enough to change sides when it suited himself, but he’d been happy to brutally antagonise his old friend for something that later didn’t even matter.

More proof of how irredeemable he is. Kylo is less than nothing. He has nothing to stand for, no direction, and without any mission in life… he’s no better than a nerf. A beast to be whipped and herded into shape, without any concept of something **more**. 

He was never worthy of the Force. He was never meant to take up the mantle of his grandfather, mother, uncle. He was… he was nothing, even then. An empty puppet. Poe is kissing him, and he doesn’t know _why_. How does this punish him?

A fist impacts the wardrobe to the side of his face, and Kylo doesn’t even wince. Poe’s forehead rests against his own, and their lips are no longer touching.

“I’m sorry,” he says, again.  


“Stop saying it.”  


“No.”  


“Stop SAYING things you don’t **mean**.”  


But Kylo does, and he hisses in a breath. He is sorry. So very, very sorry. Poe had never been anything but good to him, when they were younger. A confidant, a peer, a _true_ friend. Someone who wanted the best for him, and Kylo wanted the same. Two different worlds, but they’d met in the middle, somehow. A pilot-in-training, and a Jedi-to-be. Kylo’s eyes hurt, remembering those times. 

“I mean them,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.”  


“Do you _really_ know what it feels like, to have your **friend** strap you to a chair and _tear you apart_?”  


“No. Not that. But I know what it’s like to be broken in two. I know what it’s like to be made to think and feel what you don’t want. I know what it’s like to want the pain to _stop_.” Why is he telling him? Who else will tell him? Who else here knows how it feels? “I know what it’s like to doubt what’s real. I know how it feels when you can’t say _no_.”  


“You **hurt me** ,” Poe says, the fist in his shirt slamming harder into his chest.   


“Yes.”  


“You hurt me, and then - and then - you just show up here, and act like nothing happened?”  


“ _I’ve been hiding from everyone, if you haven’t noticed. I’m not pretending nothing happened!”_  


“Then why didn’t you _apologise to me_?”  


“ **HOW?** How can I? How can I **ever** apologise enough? I tried, okay? I tried. I tried to kill Snoke, and I tried to make it right, and what did it get me? It got me turned into - into _this_. This Force-less **ghost**. I couldn’t even kill him. So what point is saying _sorry_ , when the one thing I–”  


“I didn’t need you to kill him! I needed you to tell me you regretted what you **did to me**.”  


Kylo flinches. Of course. He could ruin anything, couldn’t he? 

“I am. I am. I regret it _all_ , Poe. Every. Single. Thing. Every minute, of every day. And I can’t take it back. I can’t do _anything at all_. I’m sorry. I’m **sorry**. You didn’t deserve it, not any of it. But I can’t take back what I did, and–”  


“Tell me… tell me…”  


“What?”  


“I don’t know.”  


Another hand slides over his face, drunkenly feeling his lips, his nose, his eyes. Kylo submits to it, and lightly holds the arms behind the hands. He’s still pinned in place, and Poe is still breathing alcohol traces all over his face.

“Tell me… you… tell me you remembered who I was?”  


A choke, and Kylo’s heart breaks. “I knew. I knew. And I hated you.”

“Why?”  


“Because I used to _love_ you. Because I used to love you so much, that you seeing me like that… you reminded me of all the things I wasn’t strong enough to be. No hero, no Jedi, no - no anything.”  


“You still can be.”  


“No. I have no Force… I am nothing.”  


“I don’t have the Force.”  


“You can _fly_.”  


“So could **you**.”  


Poe has never seen him try. “I’m… I’m just no hero, Poe.”

“You aren’t if you don’t _try_. But you did. Didn’t you?”  


Kylo hesitates, then nods, just slightly. He did try, and look where it got him. 

There’s a terrible silence, broken only with fractured breathing. Kylo wishes he could see inside Poe’s head, but it’s probably a blessing, too. 

“I… I used to love you, too. You know. For what it’s worth. And then - and then - you just… you hurt me like I was nothing, and I–” Poe falters.

“You were never nothing.”  


“Yeah? Then why did you do that?”  


“Because I had to.” Kylo holds on tighter, and Poe’s grip starts to shake. “I had to. I - I had to.”  


“If - if I wasn’t _nothing_ \- why - why wouldn’t you **talk to me**?”  


“How could I _ever_ make it up to you, Poe? You… I hurt you. And I–” Tears threaten, and he chokes on them. “I don’t know how to make this anything other than what it is.”  


The world sways, just slightly. Kylo feels drunk, through Poe. He isn’t sure why, maybe it’s just natural empathy. It isn’t the _Force_ , after all. 

“Do you still love me?”  


Kylo laughs, and it’s a horrible sound. All confused, messy emotions. Yes. No. Both. “Why does it matter?”

“Answer the damn question, you ASS!” Poe punches the wardrobe again, his fist going through the wood. Kylo flinches, but more at the thought of the pain in his hand.   


“What do you _want_ from me? Yes. YES. You ass! I do. I did. I always did, and I probably always will, and it doesn’t even _matter_ , because I **screwed up**. I screwed up, and y–”  


Poe bites his mouth, and Kylo opens his in shock. It’s almost bloody, the kiss, and then the surge of sloppy tongue inside. It feels weird, and Kylo’s never kissed anyone, so he doesn’t know if it should feel like this or not. This one hurts more, and he wonders what Poe _wants_ from him. 

“Tell me to stop,” Poe says, and he has a hand in his hair, holding firm, but not tight. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”  


_Like I didn’t_ , Kylo thinks. “Poe… I’m not–”

“Do you want me to go?”  


Kylo doesn’t. He falls silent, and the next kiss is a little softer. That isn’t saying much, he’s not sure a kiss can **be** harder.

“Tell me to stop, and I will. Or shut up, and let me hate you.”  


Hate, love. Two sides of one coin, like the Jedi, like the Sith. Kylo’s stomach hurts, and he leans to kiss the side of Poe’s mouth more softly. “Hate me, then. I hate me. You are in good company.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Ben.”  


“Yeah. I am.”  


They kiss, and there’s hands on faces, on necks, in hair. Kylo is sure he doesn’t deserve _this_ , but Poe wants it, and he owes Poe something. Everything. It’s complicated. He loves him, and Poe hates him, but the hate isn’t _hatehate_ , it’s _lovehate_ , or something. And Kylo hurt him, so it’s only fair that Poe gets his revenge. Kylo **deserves it**. The hate. Not the love. 

The pilot manhandles him towards the bed, and throws him down on it. Kylo goes where he’s pushed, and tries to surrender.

“ _Don’t you dare_ ,” Poe snaps at him. “Don’t you fucking dare.”  


Kylo looks confused up at him. “What?”

“You do this, too, or I’m out that door. I’m - I’m–”  


Not about to take something without permission, like Kylo was. He understands, then. Understands that Poe needs him to hatelove, lovehate, whatever - needs him to do it, too. Maybe it’s fucked up, but Poe needs it, and Kylo owes him _everything_.

He grabs Poe’s hair, hard, and pulls his head back. Poe snarls, and he shoves his knee between Kylo’s thighs, on the bed. There’s a tousle for control, and they slap and push and try to block hands from going places. 

Poe fights dirty. He bites down on Kylo’s neck, and Kylo scratches over Poe’s with his blunt fingernails. There’s fingers pinching skin, and the sharp, sweet taste of pain is _grounding_. He doesn’t have the _Force_ , but when Poe presses his thumb into his inner thigh, and sucks skin so hard it will bruise tomorrow… the world feels closer. He grabs hold of Poe’s ass, hard, and slams him down onto his groin. Holds on so tight it must be stinging, and then there’s the pain of his wound opening up again. The bandage contains the worst of it, but it was dumb, and he’s going to suffer, later. 

“I hate that I love you,” Poe says, by his ear. He’s grinding against him, now. Rutting his way against one hip, and Kylo’s lost between the pain in his hand and the tingle on his lips and the sharp scratches wherever Poe touches him, and the needy heat in his lap.   


“I’m sorry.”  


“Not enough.”  


Poe shoves a hand into his pants, somehow fitting in despite the angle, and then he’s ripping fabric and zips out of his way, finding Kylo’s dick in his hand. Kylo yells, and tenses. 

“I’m going to make you sorry.”  


Nails press into the base of his shaft, and the agony is so _whitehotperfect_ that he nearly blacks out. 

“I’m going to make you wish you brought your too-tall ass home _sooner_ , so I could show you how much I **missed you**.”  


That hurt worse than anything else possibly could. Poe, missing him. Evil, bad, broken and wrong as he was. Missing him. Kylo chokes on another sob, and then Poe is crawling backwards, away from him. Kylo wonders if this is his punishment. To be aroused beyond any recollection, to have his heart pulled up into his throat… to then be left horny, heart-sick, and alone. 

“I missed you too,” he whispers, as then there’s a mouth around his cock and _why is giving him head punishing him_?   


The hand on his balls tugs and yanks painfully hard, and Kylo drums his heels hard on the mattress, whining loud and long. “Poe - Poe I won’t - I won’t–”

A scrape of teeth over his cockhead, and Kylo is spurting like mad. The climax is bittersweet, a combination of lost years and perpetuated hurting and a love that could have been, and never was. Kylo _aches_ , as he comes. Hurts so deep down inside that he wants to find his saber and end himself then and there. But Poe keeps on sucking, and he pulls the unwarranted pleasure out of him. Gulps and gulps and gulps and Kylo falls back, exhausted.

Everything hurts, and feels good, all at the same time. Kylo is a wreck, and he can’t sort through the mess of emotions. Poe. Poe who was so wonderful, always. Who had that easy, loveable charm that Kylo - that _Ben_ \- had been so jealous of. Poe, with his natural talent for anything he wanted. Poe, who Kylo - who **Ben** \- had loved, and lost. 

Who Kylo had tortured.

Who still came here, and brought him to a climax he didn’t deserve.

Poe.

“Poe…”  


Poe’s crying, and Kylo puts a hand on the back of his neck. He pulls him gently up, and - after a brief hesitation - Poe goes where he asks. He pulls him to lie alongside him, and he kisses the corner of his mouth.

“I still hate you.”  


“I know,” Kylo says. “It’s okay. I know. I deserve it. But I still love you. And if you can’t forgive me… I’m still sorry.”  


“I just– I–”  


“I _know_ ,” he says. “Let me…”  


Kylo rolls them, and pushes Poe onto his back. Fear in the other man’s eyes, and it stings that it’s warranted. Kylo kneels between Poe’s thighs, and looks up for permission. Waits, until the nod. Waits, and then reaches between his legs. Eyes always locked, always held in place, and so much communication. He feels deeper inside his head, now, than he did the last time. 

Poe bites his fist, and Kylo pulls his hard dick out into the night air. Wraps his fist around it, and watches Poe’s eyes and lips.

“I can’t change what I did,” Kylo tells him. “But I can… I can… try to make it up to you. To… to everyone.”  


Poe chokes on his own tears, and he’s rocking into Kylo’s hand. It won’t be long, even Kylo knows. He’s drunk, emotional, and raw. Kylo keeps touching, and whispers his _sorries_ and his **I love yous** , over and over. Poe claws at his arms when he comes, rutting into his hand and spilling all over himself. The climax is juddery, and when it’s gone… he falls back. Falls back, and his chest heaves.

Kylo carefully lies down beside him, and tries to move his hand. Poe grabs it, and laces their fingers together. Even sticky with come, he holds his hand. Holds it… and burrows his face into Kylo’s neck.

Kylo isn’t sure what this means, for their relationship. Whatever it is. Platonic, or otherwise. He just knows he hurt him, and he needs to make it up to him. However Poe will let him.

“Don’t… don’t… leave again,” Poe says, voice barely audible. “Just… don’t.”  


“I won’t,” Kylo promises. “I won’t.”   



End file.
